


Full

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Bath Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Facials, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Pity you can’t see it; it’s quite suspenseful from my angle. Like looking down the barrel of a gun.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full

A/N: This is a [fill for a prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=25246526#t25246526) on the kinkmeme.  
   
   
   
“Bit cosy in here,” John said, trying not to elbow Lestrade in the face.  
   
“You love it,” said Lestrade, cuddling up closer behind and wrapping his arms round John.  
   
Sherlock grimaced and tried to dislodge his ankle from where it was wedged between the inside of the tub and John’s hip. He repositioned it so his instep followed the curve of John’s last rib.  
   
John put his hand over the wandering foot. The toes were cold. “Comfortable?” he asked.  
   
Sherlock still looked unsatisfied, but he nodded and reclined. The tub was cold at first, against his shoulder blades, but was warmed by his body heat soon enough. He was at eye level with John’s half-hard cock, and watched as it slowly but surely stood up and filled out.  
   
As Lestrade continued to caress John’s body, he made occasional forays into Sherlock’s territory, stroking the parts he could reach, feet and ankles and one calf.  
   
Out of the blue, Lestrade cursed. “Did someone remember to bring the lube?”  
   
“Christ,” said John, with a roll of his head. He gripped the edges of the tub to lift himself out, but Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder, pressing John back into his lap. “Joking. I’ve got it right here.” He reached down and brought the bottle up. “You ready, Sherlock?”  
   
“Mm.” Sherlock nodded again.  
   
“Ready, John?”  
   
“Yeah,” John winced, as Lestrade’s hand pressed gently but firmly just above his pubic bone. Already the fullness of his bladder was excruciating. He yearned for relief, but he was too hard to piss now.  
   
“Sure you don’t want one more cup of tea?”  
   
“No, I don’t, thanks.”  
   
Lestrade pumped some lube onto his fingers and slid them into the crack of John’s arse. “Feeling quite full, then?”  
   
“Yes” didn’t begin to cover it, but it was all John could get out. He needed to go so badly, and Lestrade’s mischievous fingers made it difficult to concentrate on holding it.  
   
“Well, guess what,” Lestrade said, and pushed a finger into John. “It’s about to get a _bit_ more intense.” The finger poked about until it happened upon John’s prostate, pushing against it and it’s neighbour, John’s bladder. Lestrade smiled at John’s whinge. He leaned back so he could get a slightly better view of what his finger was doing, then slid it out so he could add a second. He found John’s prostate more quickly this time, and pressed more insistently.  
   
“Is he hard?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.  
   
“Oh yes,” Sherlock whispered. He rubbed the sole of his foot against John’s side again. “Pity you can’t see it; it’s quite suspenseful from my angle. Like looking down the barrel of a gun.”  
   
Lestrade paused. “I know this was all explained to me, with the diagrams on the whiteboard and all, but I’ve forgotten: which one of us is supposed to be giving John a wank? Sherlock, can you reach?”  
   
“I’ll do it,” John sighed. His own touch would bring him off the quickest, anyway. He first tried to keep his hand still and push into his fist, but Lestrade wasn’t having it. With his free hand, he grabbed John’s hip and pulled him back into his lap, while giving him a little disciplinary stab with his fingers.  
   
“You’re gonna come so hard,” Lestrade rasped in John’s ear. “And when you finally have a piss, that’ll feel so good it will be like coming.” John moaned over Lestrade’s words, knowing he was right and only just beginning to feel the pleasure and discomfort coalesce into a unified sensation, albeit one that was confusing and terrifying. One moment, he was hard-pressed to decide which he needed more, to come or to urinate. The next moment, he seized up and didn’t want either, for fear that if he pursued one, he might suddenly do the other.  
   
Sherlock was growing tired of the suspense. He attempted to exploit one of John’s weaknesses: the sound of his voice. “Try to get a look over his shoulder, if you can, when he comes,” he said to Lestrade, his voice lowered to a rumble. “He shoots the biggest, thickest loads I’ve ever seen.”  
   
“You watch a lot of men ejaculate, then?” Lestrade snickered.  
   
“Would both of you _please shut up_?” John snapped. “I’m trying to concentrate.”  
   
Things got very quiet then. All that remained were the soft, moist sounds of John and Lestrade’s hands doing their respective jobs, and John’s panting, whimpering breaths. Sherlock gazed expectantly at the slit of John’s cock, his mouth slightly open, his hands gripping the sides of the tub.  
   
Lestrade’s fingers did not let up once he fell into silence. He didn’t ask John what he desired; he wasn’t interested. He just pushed relentlessly against John’s sensitive prostate and tormented his painfully full bladder.  
   
“What’s the matter?” Lestrade whispered slyly. “Do you need a little more?” John felt Lestrade’s two fingers leaving him, then the press of three.  
   
“Em, really, that’s not necessary,” John yelped, “I’m full, honestly. Oh God, I can’t -- oh fuck --”  
   
He screamed and swore and came and came and came, as hard as Lestrade had promised he would. The painful pressure in his bladder transmuted into a white-hot spike of pleasure. Then the thumping at the base of his cock began, and Sherlock’s jaw went completely slack as the first hot pulse of come hit his chest.  
   
Lestrade leaned to one side so that he could watch John ejaculate. “Christ, you were right,” he said to Sherlock. “That is really something.”  
   
Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was mesmerised by the ropes of spunk John was putting on his belly. One hand reached down to touch them, reverently, as if they were fragile. He swirled the warm fluid in little circles on his skin with his fingertips, then grew more bold and spread it all across his chest and belly, as John tilted and collapsed back into Lestrade’s lap.  
   
John opened his eyes and took in the sight of Sherlock playing in his fluids. It provoked one final spasm, and a fat drop shook and fell from the tip of his cock.  
   
“Come on, John,” Sherlock’s wet, sticky hand gripped his own cock, which was half-hard and growing, but he was waiting to begin jerking himself.  
   
“Give me a moment. I need to…” John let the sentence hang unfinished in the air. He needed a lot of things. He needed his pelvic floor muscles to relax. He needed to be standing properly in front of a toilet, not sat in a bloke’s lap in a bathtub.  
   
Sherlock watched intently as John held himself between finger and thumb, trying not to rub the oversensitised organ. All three men were waiting, their breaths coming shaky and hard as the tension mounted. But nothing would come. John’s face was hot with embarrassment. He looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were frighteningly intense and whose body quivered. God, Sherlock was _flushed and_ _trembling with want_. The thought made John seize up once again. He pushed the heel of his free hand hard against his thigh, the fingers flexing in frustration.  
   
“John,” Sherlock whispered.  
   
“I’m trying!” Something inside John was still clamped tight after his orgasm. He tried to slow his breathing, relax his pelvic floor muscles, bear down slightly. A single, last drop of come hung from the slit of his cock. Sherlock focused on it.  
   
“John.”  
   
“Oh.” Just like that, he let go. Sherlock sucked in a breath, finally allowing himself to stroke his cock while John pissed a hard, hot stream onto his sternum. With a twitch of his wrist, John steered the stream so it hit Sherlock’s hand and cock, then travelled back up to his collarbone. Sherlock put his hand in it, rubbing it down into his pubic hair while stray rivulets tickled his sides.  
   
Lestrade wasn’t straining to get a look at what was going on in front of him anymore, but he did enjoy listening to Sherlock’s cries, and the long, juicy groan of relief spilling out of John. It made his prick throb, and he rocked his hips slightly to rub it against John’s arse.  
   
“Up here, John, hurry.” Sherlock said, giving a quick nod to indicate what he wanted. He feared John would be empty too soon.  
   
This part John didn’t particularly care for, but he wanted to please Sherlock. So he directed the stream further upward, making it arc slightly and getting one good splash on Sherlock’s face. A few drops hit Sherlock’s lips, and he licked at them desperately. He slid his hand through it and up into his hair.  
   
The liquid appeared clear as it flowed out of John’s cock, but as it slid in rivulets down Sherlock’s sides and into the tub, it revealed a hint of colour, pale gold. The odor was not terribly offensive, but it filled all their nostrils with pungent saltiness. John and Lestrade both tolerated the smell and the wetness; Sherlock was wallowing in it. Having seemingly lost awareness of the other two men in the crowded tub, he continued to masturbate, catching the cascading liquid with his free hand and rubbing it all over himself, glistening with it. John’s stream finally slowed to a trickle, and petered out. When Sherlock saw John’s body shake with a last little piss-shiver, he gasped “Ooh, ooh, _now_ ,” and came, pressing his limbs against the sides of the tub, his hips jerking uncontrollably, refusing to be hindered by the cramped conditions. As the spasms faded into intermittent tremors, Sherlock sighed and continued to stroke his chest lazily with one hand.  
   
“God, that felt good,” John groaned.  
   
Lestrade cleared his throat. “What,” he said, trying not to sound too pushy, “does everyone say to a shower?”  
   
“Just give him one more minute,” John said, and Sherlock nodded in agreement.  
   
“My leg’s gone to sleep,” Lestrade complained.  
   
“ _One_ _minute_ ,” John said. “You’ll get yours.”  
   
“I’m ready,” Sherlock said, and folded himself tighter in order to find some leverage to stand.  
   
John got up next, and turned the water on so Sherlock could get rinsed while Lestrade struggled to stand up. Lestrade held onto John’s shoulder to balance himself until the feeling returned to his legs.  
   
“Don’t use all the hot water,” Lestrade warned. “This bastard sweated all over me.”  
   
“ _Horses_ sweat,” John corrected. “I exude an inexplicable but alluring masculine charm.”  
   
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, mate.”  
   
The three men each took their turn under the showerhead, the remaining two soaping each other until it was their go.  
   
“Sherlock,” John said whilst he lathered Lestrade’s erection. “Lestrade has been a very good sport this evening. Shall we give him a reward?”  
   
Sherlock made eye contact with John, and the corners of his mouth threatened to make him appear to be smiling. They nodded to each other and, together, manoeuvered Lestrade under the showerhead, from which point he watched them both drop to their knees.  
   
And then there were two grateful mouths on his cock. He gaped at the sight of Sherlock and John sharing the head, their tongues sliding over it and occasionally intertwining. Between kisses and licks to the head and shaft, they would kiss each other sloppily, sometimes close enough that their lips continued to caress him. Then, long before he was bored with the sight, they would return their full attention to him, Sherlock tonguing the length of him while John mouthed each of his balls in turn.  
   
Then those pink, playful mouths turned competitive. Sherlock was the first to guide Lestrade’s cock properly between his lips to have a suckle. It was such a treat to watch that soft, heart-shaped mouth envelop his cock, those moist lips still looking plump even when stretched around the crown. But John wanted to show Lestrade that while Sherlock was big on appearances, _he_ had the talent. The moment Sherlock let Lestrade’s cock slip from his mouth, John gripped the shaft and guided it between his own lips. Inside that mouth, Lestrade’s cock received precision strikes, as the hard spear of Johns tongue-tip in the slit transformed into a wide, flat caressing of his fraenulum, and then a firm, wet blade round the crown.  
   
Sherlock scoffed at John’s seeming inability to take Lestrade deeply. Not to be outdone, he pushed John gently away in order to reclaim Lestrade’s cock, this time swallowing it to the root, burying his nose in Lestrade’s pubic hair, all the while wearing the most smug, “look-what-I-can-do” expression, and never gagging.  
   
“Enough, you two,” Lestrade said. He was close. “Alright, which one of you wants me to come on their face?”  
   
John pointed at Sherlock, who coyly raised his hand.  
   
“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “I know.” He let John take him in hand and jerk him to completion, aiming him squarely at Sherlock’s upturned, expectant face. The first shot splashed across the corner of his slightly open mouth and his cheek, the second ended up suspended between his parted lips. Lestrade batted John’s hand away, then, and held his prick in his own fist, teasing out the last pearlescent dribble and wiping it across Sherlock’s cheekbone.  
   
Sherlock groaned. He was touching himself, getting hard again.  
   
“Looks like Sherlock’s ready for Round Two,” John observed.  
   
“That’s between you,” Lestrade sighed. “I’m getting out. If I don’t sit down, I’ll fall down.” He pushed the shower curtain aside and took a cautious step out of the tub, knees trembling, grabbing a towel from the rack before leaning against the sink to dry himself.  
   
John stood, and helped Sherlock to his feet. “You want another one?” he asked.  
   
Sherlock gazed down at his half-hard prick and made an ambiguous noise. John took up the soap and gave Sherlock’s face a brief but thorough scrub. “How about a little later, in the bed?”  
   
“Mmm.”  
   
“Get under here and rinse your face, my love.”  
   
“He gets quiet, doesn’t he,” Lestrade said, toweling off his belly and thighs.  
   
“Isn’t it brilliant?” John said. “Will you be staying, by the way?”  
   
Lestrade picked up his watch from where it lay next to the basin. “I shouldn’t. It’s gone half one. I should try to get _some_ sleep tonight.”  
   
“Stay with us. The bed’s too big without you.”  
   
“Not with Sherlock in it. He’s a bloody cuddler.”  
   
Sherlock grunted.  
   
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” Lestrade began to dress, frowning at the stray flecks of water that now spotted his shirt. John made a move like he was going to get himself and Sherlock out so they could dry off and see Lestrade to the door. Lestrade put a hand up and nodded once. “No need, gentlemen. I can see myself out. Cheers.”  
   
“’Night,” John called after him. He shrugged off Lestrade’s exit -- he was a busy man, after all -- and turned his attention back to Sherlock. “So, do you want Round Two in the bed? Or right here? Water’s getting tepid.”  
   
Sherlock took John’s hand and placed it on his cock.  
   
“Your wish.” John squeezed and stroked Sherlock back to full hardness. “How about I tell you how sexy you looked when you were waiting for me to come on you…”


End file.
